


Greyhound

by wigglewyrms (KeyholeCat)



Category: For Honor (Video Game)
Genre: F/F, Loyalty, Whipping
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2017-04-19
Updated: 2017-04-19
Packaged: 2018-10-20 17:49:51
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,576
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/10667721
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/KeyholeCat/pseuds/wigglewyrms
Summary: Hounds are to be tolerated, but not loved.Rating will rise.





	Greyhound

They were lucky. They had been surrounded on three sides by vikings. The enemy commander knew one of the Blackstone Legion's strongest captains was at the center of the retreating forces and had set his fastest troops on them accordingly. Had the legion not cut the rope bridge they'd crossed, the Warden's head would presently decorate the end of a stranger's spear.

Of course, knowing Apollyon, she now returns to an even worse fate.

The Warden does not say this to her soldiers. To do so would be to crush what little morale they have left, and hope is what they need most. Besides, it was she who had ordered their retreat. They are merely following orders.

She looks at them now. There had been more of them when she initially called the retreat, but many had been left behind, felled by arrows or too injured to survive the wild dash away from danger. One of their conquerors, at least, had managed to sling a wounded Blackstone over her shoulder before fleeing.

She touches a hand to her breastplate and fingers a rift in the steel. It is a welcome gift from a hulking raider. She could have died.

She looks forward again and sets her jaw, cursing her self-absorption. Blackstone blood is on her hands, and she escaped with nothing more than damaged equipment. She should have sent another scout before attacking. She should have looked for a weakness in their defenses, or at least gotten a better count of the enemy force's size. She should have—

The men on watch grunt a greeting as the returning soldiers enter camp. The Warden is too consumed to hear.

Stone is sitting by a nearby campfire surrounded by a ring of tents. He spots her and waves a hand. This, at least, is enough to pull the Warden from her sullen rumination.

"Hey," he says, standing up. "Thought you'd be dead. Couple scouts came after you left saying there were more guards at that outpost than they first counted."

"Yeah," she says. "I noticed that."

"How'd it go? Find anything good? I'm almost out of that mead we filched from that shipyard."

"Where is Apollyon?"

"War room, I think," he says. "Holden's probably there, too."

The Warden nods and continues on.

 

Stone is almost correct; Holden and Apollyon stand just outside the tower that houses the makeshift war room.

She glances to her sides. Her soldiers still follow. Good; if Apollyon reacts poorly to their news, they will survive longer as a group.

"Master," she hails, "we have returned from the northern outpost."

Apollyon turns her head. Her face is masked, yet even through a layer of steel and rust the Warden feels her scrutinizing gaze.

She speaks. "You have, indeed. And with so few of you remaining."

Apollyon's empty stare bores into her subordinate. The Warden thinks she might turn to stone, were it not for her own helmet shielding her eyes. Perhaps it would be a mercy.

"Prepare to move. We attack the longhouse at dawn." Apollyon turns away, retreating to the war room.

"Master," the Warden calls.

Her master stops. She looks over her shoulder. "Speak."

The Warden swallows. "Our attack was not a success."

There is a beat. Another beat.

"What?"

Apollyon turns slowly. The Warden cannot bear her helmet's scowl, so she shuts her eyes.

"We were greatly outnumbered. I commanded a retreat."

Apollyon faces her fully. "A retreat. I see."

She begins to descend the steps leading to the tower. The Warden, left hand curled around the strong of her blade, tightens her grasp. She steals another quick glance at her men. They are tired, but unperturbed by Apollyon's approach. Even the injured soldier is on his feet.

At the edge of the clearing, however, a crowd gathers. They smell blood.

Something pointed prods the steel mail under her armor. The Warden starts and her right hand flies to her sword.

When her head snaps forward, however, she does not see a dagger pressed to her gut, but two fingers disappearing through the gash in her breastplate.

"Well, it seems you did not flee immediately, at least," says Apollyon. She curls her fingers and scrapes two steel talons along the edge of the split. "You should see about having this armor repaired. Remove it and have our quartermaster deal with it." The fingertips flick from the tip of the gash.

Somehow, the request is comforting. The Warden's hand falls from the hilt of her sword. "Yes, master. I will do so after our debriefing."

"No. You will do it now."

Tension returns as quickly as it disappeared. "Master?"

"Remove your armor, Warden."

The Warden swallows. The interior of her helmet is hot with moisture, but that is not the sole source of the heat building in her face. She removes her helm and its padded cap. Her ears freed, she hears the crowd mumbling as she works her pauldrons loose.

Eventually she removes the breastplate, as well as several other articles in the way. The quartermaster steps forward to take it.

Apollyon nods. "Good. Now the chain."

The Warden hesitates. The chainmail is undamaged, as far as she can tell. Perhaps Apollyon had noticed something during her impromptu inspection.

She removes the chain, but no one steps forward to claim it, so she drops it at her feet.

"And the doublet."

The Warden's lips thin into a frown. So this is a game, then. Fine. She will play.

Apollyon paces as the Warden unlaces her doublet. "Do you know what happened the last time a force of Blackstones retreated from battle?"

"I don't suppose you received them with a warm welcome."

The Warden drops her doublet onto the mail. The cold pierces her thin shirt.

"You're right. I didn't." Apollyon nods to someone standing beyond the Warden.

Faster than she can react, two pairs of arms grasp each of hers, disarming her in the process. She writhes in their hold, but someone kicks the back of her knees, and she collapses.

She struggles even as her captors rotate her away from Apollyon. "What is this?" she cries. "Is this how the Blackstone Legion treats captains who value their troops? We strip them and gut them like livestock?"

"You aren't going to die," says Apollyon. The Warden cranes her neck to see her master speak. "Not today."

Holden steps forward with something in his hand. A whip. Apollyon takes it and approaches her prisoner.

"Forty lashes. That is the punishment for failure. Be grateful I do not give you a deserter's death."

A chill ripples across the Warden's skin, a sensation wholly different from Valkenheim's brumal air. She eyes the whip; it is thick, braided leather, its tapered end tied with frayed twine. She swallows. Coming from an arm as strong as Apollyon's, a single lash would be agony.

"You will number every strike. Aloud. If you lose count, we start again."

Finally the Warden tears her gaze from the whip, facing forward. The soldiers under her command have been corralled before her, perhaps to remind her of her failure, or perhaps so they may see her face twist with torment.

A man pounds a wooden stake with a steel ring into the earth between her knees. Another readies a rope for binding.

She closes her eyes as they tie her hands to the ring. This is better than the alternative, she tells herself. She could be dead. They could all be dead. This punishment is better than she deserves.

The men move away from her. She opens her eyes. "I am ready."

There is a chuckle, so soft she nearly misses it. "I didn't ask," says Apollyon.

The first lash falls with a sickening _crack._ The Warden's cry catches in her throat. A line of pain burns across her shoulder blades. She sets her jaw and presses her forehead to the post before her.

She is a superior officer of the Blackstone Legion. Nobody, not even Apollyon, can see her will falter.

"The count, Warden."

The pain is already fading. She can endure this. Apollyon will not break her. Not today.

"Warden."

"One," says the Warden.

The crowd stirs with approval. Apollyon, too, mutters praise.

"Good girl," she says, her voice sanguine sweet.

Another lash falls. The Warden chokes on frigid Valkenheim air. The moment passes, however, and her muscles relax.

"Two."

_Crack._

Apollyon wastes no time. But then, she is in no hurry, either—she gives the Warden ample time to absorb and appreciate every strike.

"Three."

_Crack._

The Warden's breath stutters again. Her arms wrack with tremors.

Apollyon notices. "Crying already, Warden? If it's any consolation, by twenty lashes you'll barely be able to distinguish one strike from another."

"Shit," she breathes.

"Hm. Not 'four', but a four-letter word. I'll accept it, just this once."

_Crack._

\--

The Warden's hands tremble violently as they clutch at loose bandages.

"Give me those," Mercy commands.

The Warden obliges. She expects Mercy to unroll them and wrap them around her patient's midsection. Instead, Mercy places them just out of reach.

"But—"

"You don't want those just yet. These wounds are going to burn for the rest of the night. Bandaging them now will only irritate them."

"But—"

"Lie down on your front."

The Warden opens her mouth to protest, but Mercy raises a hand. "Another 'but' and I'll leave you to lick your wounds yourself. Or worse, I'll tell Stone to help you."

"Fine."

She obeys Mercy's command and lays herself stomach-down on the cot.

"I'll admit, you did better than I expected," Mercy says. "Most people black out or are too busy wailing to keep count. Well done."

It is a compliment, but Mercy's words ring hollow. Her deadpan tone doesn't help.

"My men," the Warden grunts. "I lost consciousness when Stone started untying me. Are they—"

"They're fine. Scared witless, but fine."

The Warden releases a breath. "Thank God. I was half-convinced they were going to be slaughtered right before my eyes."

"Don't be dramatic. Even Apollyon knows we need as many soldiers we can get up north."

She puts her hands on her patient's back. The Wardens starts. "Be still," says Mercy. "It's only a healing salve."

"I didn't know you were an apothecary as well as an assassin."

"That which kills may also cure. Though I haven't found a medicinal use for knives, yet."

"You let me know how that goes."

Mercy doesn't respond, allowing the conversation to lapse into silence. The Warden closes her eyes.  

At the center of the room, a fire pit crackles and spits ash. She is grateful for the warmth after having spent ten minutes wearing little to ward off the cold. She will have to request a new shirt from the quartermaster; her previous garb is now tattered and blood-soaked.

Mercy's palms slide across the marred planes of the Warden's back, leaving the faint sting of a healing poultice in their wake. Something about it is both soothing and excruciating. She cannot decide whether to focus on the sensation or distract herself with more conversation.

Mercy decides for her. "The burning will pass soon. Try not to toss and turn in bed tonight, or the wounds will reopen—to say nothing of the pain it would cause. It will be much more bearable tomorrow, as long as you do nothing to disturb the wounds."

"You certainly know a lot about this. Are you speaking from experience?"

Mercy does not respond at first. The Warden wonders if she was even listening. But then, she answers.

"I've failed Apollyon before. Never again."

"Ah."

Silence falls again. This time, a series of images flood the Warden's mind: Mercy's petite form stripped and tied to a post, steam curling from her bloodied back into the wintry air. Apollyon standing over her, whip poised to strike. Mercy bracing for the next lash, muscles tense, eyes tightly shut.

The air has become too stifling, too close. The Warden wriggles under Mercy's hands as though to free herself from the sudden heat building in her core.

Mercy scolds her for moving, but her patient barely acknowledges it. There is a strange thought taking form in the Warden's head, one that she struggles to put into words. Blood freezing onto a conqueror's gloves, strong hands tying her wrists to a steel ring, hot weals coloring her back, the whip's frayed tip turning red—

"I'm thankful to Apollyon. For the lashings."

It's an oversimplification, but it's the best she can manage.

The change in Mercy's touch is almost imperceptible, as is the disbelief tinting her response.

"Okay," she says.

"I failed, Mercy. I underestimated the vikings' skill, and overestimated my own. My ego killed those soldiers."

"Mhm."

"And Apollyon depended on me— _trusted_ me to succeed. I threw that trust aside like it was nothing. Shattered it." The Warden's fingers curl into her palms. She watches her knuckles pale. "She has no reason to have faith in me anymore, but I… I need her to. She has to know that I—"

Mercy stands suddenly. Chill bites the skin abandoned by warm hands.

"I don't care how you feel. If you want Apollyon's favor so badly, go grovel at her feet all you like."

The Warden blinks. Mercy does not touch her again. Her patient rises to look at her, but she has vanished, leaving behind the bandages and a bitter scent of crushed herbs.

Sitting up straight, the Warden absently plucks the bandages from their resting place, cradling them in her hands.

"How I feel?" she mutters, her brow furrowed. What an odd suggestion, that her need to atone has anything to do with feelings. She had taken an oath. Her duty and loyalty are to her master, to her legion, to the innocent. Emotion has nothing to do with it.

A fearsome wind blusters against the infirmary walls. The rotting door rattles on its hinges. Goosebumps mar the Warden's skin. She recalls the bandages in her hands and realizes she must wrap them herself.

She sighs and starts to work. Her fingers fumble, and the process is punctuated by winces and groans. Mercy was right not to apply them immediately; the wrappings scratch and rub at the raw, bruised skin.

On her third attempt, her mind drifts to thoughts of Apollyon and her whip.

Apollyon will not trust her with any vital task for some time. If she is to regain her confidence, she must prove her worth once again. The simplest solution would be to excel on the battlefield, but given her present state, that would be difficult to achieve.

Reaching the end of the wrappings rouses her from thought. She examines the bandages. Between her clumsy hands and clouded mind, it's a slipshod job, but it will have to do for the night. Perhaps she can pester Mercy into fixing it in the morning.

At the center of the room, the fire sputters a dying breath. The cold creeps closer. Shivering, the Warden gathers the blanket spread beneath her and wraps it around her shoulders.

She is getting far ahead of herself. First and foremost, she must visit the quartermaster and smith to see about replacing her shirt and repairing her armor.

This is what she tells herself as she stands to leave, but even as she trudges into the snow, even as icy air cuts through fabric and rakes her wounds, she thinks only of Apollyon's iron scowl.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I had taken a hiatus from writing this but then I heard someone else was writing f!Warden/Apollyon so I finished this chapter in a fit of righteous, gay determination to be The First


End file.
